


Black Flag

by riverstones



Series: Tangent Space [3]
Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: F/M, Pirates, hell hath no fury like wonder woman pissed off, issues lots of issues, old batman is still a playboy, the world needs more bmww
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7454950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverstones/pseuds/riverstones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Batman and Batman team up to stop a weapon manufacturing ring.</p><p>In the year 2056, after Batman Beyond and the JLU Epilogue, geriatric Bruce Wayne unwittingly imbibes ambrosia at his own wedding and gets a reluctant second shot at life.</p><p>Each episode can stand alone but is better read in order. If you had to pick just one, please read Ep.2 “Feel My Pain" which truly sets the tone of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Progressive

**Author's Note:**

> The previous episode personally freaked me out a little, so we're going on the lighter side this time around. 
> 
> Reminder: Authors are insecure creatures, and comments are the fuel by which new chapters get created. Thank you!

Fire burned in the Wayne mausoleum.

Diana flew across the manor grounds, having completed her League duties for the day. She headed for the light in the Wayne family crypts. Just inside, a fire pit burned brightly. Bruce stood by, intently watching the flames. She was surprised to see him wearing an old version of the Batsuit. Dark half-mask. LED-lit eyes. Black cape.

“It seemed fitting to be in armor,” he explained. Again, he had somehow sensed her presence. Probably via a stray shadow on the wall. Someday, she told herself, she would sneak up on him yet.

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was their anniversary.”

“It's not. But time doesn't wait.”

And she knew. It was time. Finally, he was ready to don the cowl once more.

Three sepulchers had been dusted clean—those of Thomas Wayne, Martha Wayne, and Alfred Pennyworth. He told her, “I cremated the remaining bones and scattered their ashes over the lake. These crypts contain nothing but ornamental urns now. Empty vessels cannot be used against me.”

He picked up two bouquets that lay on the floor near him. She recognized the flowers as grown right there in the manor greenhouses. Kevin must have made the arrangements. Bruce's bouquet was mostly comprised of angel trumpets and geraniums. The one with tiger lilies he held out. He had been intentionally waiting for her. “Would you do the honors?”

She took the flowers. Bruce threw his bouquet into the fire, but Diana hesitated.

“I remember this. The Babel Incident. You made a plan to take down each member of the League should we go rogue. They took your parents’ remains so you could not interfere while your stolen plans were turned against the rest of us.” She turned to look at him accusingly. “I remember what you said, why you made those plans. What I never understood was why you choose to do it that way. I still don't. Perhaps I never will. It felt like you betrayed us.”

He frowned at her, annoyed that she would bring up the topic now. He spoke angrily, “You know I will do the same all over again in a heartbeat, princess—”

“And I will go against you again when you do!” Her eyes blazed. When, not if. She smiled, a pained smile that didn't reach the rest of her face. “You’ve always known me best. In fact, husband dearest, now you know everything about me. My every intimate secret I have laid bare to you. You'd have already put that in your plans too, I'm sure. I can't lie and say it doesn't hurt.”

“Diana—”

She held her hand up, “Don't insult me with promises you will be forced to break.” She exhaled, bit her lower lip as she looked down and away from him, her emotions in turmoil. He was he and she was her and there were fundamental things about them that would never change. Crucial differences that could never be mended. They both understood this. “It doesn't matter. Whatever I may feel, I trust you. Whatever happens, I won't leave you. I can't, anymore. You're stuck with me.”

She threw her flowers into the fire. The tiger lilies caught flame, and she spoke a silent promise to those long dead, that she would always stay by their son's side for as long as her immortal life kept on living. A reiteration of a vow already made and witnessed, at an altar where they could not be in attendance.

As she watched the flowers burn, strong gloved hands wrapped around her from behind. She felt his warm breath on her neck. He whispered three precious words—words that were both an intimate secret and an enduring promise—so softly they easily disappeared in the cackle of flames. But she heard, and she knew, and she would remember.

Hand-in-hand, they walked back towards the manor. Behind them the wind blew the fire out, and the ashes floated away into nothingness.

 

“Wow, just wow. This is so unexpected. When they said I was going to interview Bruce Wayne and Wonder Woman together, I thought it had to do with… I don't know what I thought. Not this, certainly. So you guys are truly married? You've actually been married since August? Four months ago since it's December now.”

“That's right, Steve,” Bruce answered. He and his wife sat together on a couch in a TV studio for a press release, being interviewed by popular talk show host Steven Harvey of _‘The Steven Harvey Show!’_ fame. Bruce was in business casual attire while Diana wore her full Justice League uniform.

“Bruce, you look great. Extremely great. Like you're in your thirties or forties again.” He turned to Wonder Woman, “So he turned like that because he married you?”

Diana answered, “Yes. We were surprised to discover it at first too, since none of my people have married outside my tribe in millennia. But it really is just like the stories in Greek mythology that everybody studies in fifth grade.”

“Are you guys a love match?”

“We most certainly are,” Bruce confirmed. “You're too young to know this, but Diana and I dated in our youth. Three months in 2006.”

“Wow, that's exactly fifty years ago. So is this in fact, a rekindling of an old flame?”

“That term only applies if the flame ever burned out. In our case I think it never did, for either of us.” Bruce patted Diana's hand.

“Even when you were dating other people? If I remember correctly, a few years ago Superman and Wonder Woman were quite an item. Don’t tell me you and Superman broke up because of him?”

“Uhm, we did, actually,” she admitted sheepishly. The questions made her uncomfortable. She was fine with official League appearances, but personal TV interviews with very personal questions were not her thing.

“Wow, that is just unbelievable. True love at it's finest. How about you, Bruce? As recently as last month, you were linked to actress Susan Bertinelli. Hey, I realized just now you were already married then! What does your wife say about your reputation? Wonder Woman, don't you get jealous? How are you going to deal with the other women in Bruce Wayne’s life?”

She flustered at the question. “Why, why, I— Ahh—” Deep breath. She deadpanned, “He can make love to all the women he wants, as long as he comes home only to me.”

“Wow, that's very, uh, progressive—”

Bruce exclaimed, “Diana, how can you think that I look at anyone else? Even when I was young, none of them ever compared to you.”

Just as he reached towards her beside him on the interviewer’s couch, the wall-sized TV screen in the Wayne manor living room switched off. Diana, still dressed in a silver evening gown, held the remote while glaring at him. They had arrived home after a date night in town, just in time to catch the broadcast.

“I can’t believe you French kissed me on National TV!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flushed. Bruce stood by the opposite side of the living room couch, shaking uncontrollably. “I almost threw you! And stop laughing!”

“I'm not any worse than you, princess. I can’t believe you said that,” he chuckled. “How many puritans you must have shocked. From what netherworld tome did you pull that line from anyway?”

“Scottish Folktales, Cuchulainn’s wife, sixth bookcase in your East wing library. Don’t change the subject!”

He laughed again, not bothering to hide his mirth anymore. His wife was thousands of years old and could flick him like a bug, then she would turn around and quote inappropriate Shakespeare at the most inopportune of times. Or, in this case, inappropriate Celtic mythology. “From the ‘Bat of Gotham’ you turned me into the ‘Hound of Ulster’? This just gets better and better.”

He sensed impending violence. He walked over and quickly wrapped his arms about her waist.

“Oh no, Mr. Wayne, if you think—”

He kissed her. Gently, without tongue this time. She didn't resist. After a while he felt her arms around his neck and her fingers run through his hair, pulling him closer. He was briefly tempted to tease her with another French kiss, but he figured he ought to quit while he was ahead. While all his bones were still intact. He reluctantly broke the kiss instead.

“There, the cat's out of the bag. We're public, the whole story with just the sensitive details left out. No bullcrap tales about immortality pills. Are you happy?”

The Themysciran demigoddess of truth smiled genuinely at him. “Yes.”

 

Late Monday morning at the Wayne manor, Terrence McGinnis walked with purpose across the halls. He had just returned to Gotham after red-eye flight from China. He was tired, he terribly missed his wife and kids, but he wanted to get some business over with first. As he passed by a hallway mirror, he paused and looked at himself. He scratched at the two-day-old growth on his chin, deciding that he badly needed a shave. The shave could wait.

As he entered the manor’s home office, he saw a dark-haired man typing on a laptop behind the antique oak desk. The pose was familiar, but the face was not. “Wow, Bruce, you look even younger than I do. I saw you on TV, but it's hell of a lot more impressive in person.”

“Welcome back, Terry.”

He took a deep breath, unsure of how to breach the topic or its appropriateness. But this man was one of the most important people in his life, and he figured he should be honest. “I'm only going to say this once, and now seems appropriate.” He paused. Bruce waited. He continued, “I would never have done it. But I admit that many times, I played the scenario over and over in my mind, how much I would want to throw you into a Lazarus pit when you finally decided to croak. I am truly glad that I will never be faced with that temptation. All it took was for you to marry a living demigoddess. Like she said, all this time the answer had been staring us in the face. Right there in fifth grade Greek mythology.”

Bruce smiled in melancholy. “Alfred would be happy if he knew Diana and I got hitched in the end. He always said Diana was the only girl in my harem—his words—who didn't have a psychotic streak.”

“Cupid and Psyche. Hercules and Hebe. Boreas and Oreithyia. I noticed that there was one thing about the myths you conveniently avoided discussing. Immortality is bestowed by the nectar of the gods, figured out by any fifth grader who could put two and two together.”

“Ambrosia has absolutely no side effects. Oddly enough, my experiments strongly indicate that it is not magic.”

“So it _is_ ambrosia? And you already tested yourself?” The ambrosia had been a guess. He shouldn't have been surprised that Bruce was already running experiments. Terry pointed out, “Do you realize that you have effectively confirmed to the world that achievable immortality exists? How many of the super villains we've taken down over the years would wage war for it? Themyscira will be a target.”

“The Greek myths have always been common knowledge. You'd be surprised how uncommon common sense actually is. In any case, we calculated and decided the trade-off was worth it. Trying to hide our situation has caused many problems—in more ways than I am able to tell you right now—that we weren't prepared to handle. Metahumans and the Justice League have been around for sixty-odd years. There are immortals walking among us, public and well-known. People have not been rioting over them. The world is ready for this. 

“Diana and the queen understand the risks. We already discussed it with her majesty before we set up the press release. When it happens, we'll just have to deal with it.” Bruce changed the subject, “How was Beijing?”

“Hot. One month is far too long to be away from Dana and the kids. Have they seen the new you yet?”

“I took Diana once to see them. I will have to tone down my visits, now that I'm high profile again.”

“Michael will be sad. You know how he adores you. I suppose it can't be helped. As long as you don't skip Christmas.”

“That's a promise.”

Terry slung his backpack to his front and dug around. He took out a flash drive from his pencil case. “Do you remember the Somalia cruise ship ambush? Where Warhawk almost lost his arm?”

“The one where my wife dropped a crate? I might have been incapacitated elsewhere during that incident. What about it?”

“This is really more your territory than mine,” he admitted. “Yours and Matt's. I’m stumped. I think we need to tackle this using the business angle. I’ve tried brute force, and it is not working.” Matthew McGinniss, his younger brother, was currently working for the business arm of Wayne Enterprises. Bruce had been grooming Matt for an eventual leadership position, but the young man was still too inexperienced for it.

Terry held the flash drive out. “Schematics of weapons that can take down the Justice League. Completely non-lethal. Also completely, absolutely legal, in every country under the United Nations.” He sighed heavily. “You’d think that non-lethal weapons were a good thing, but no. They use these weapons to incapacitate the good guys, then they follow-through with deadlier ones.

“I’ve also got intel on the company that manufactures them. Their biggest customers are the Indian Ocean pirate groups, but the weapons are slowly trickling into the Gotham underground now. Most of it are extra munitions from the pirates themselves. It won't be long before we have an influx from direct suppliers.

“Every time I shut down one of their factories, I was breaking the law. Within one week a new one just pops up to take it's place. Assembly is cheap, the parts are cheap, labor is extremely cheap. What hurts the most is the legality angle. There's no way to stop the manufacturing permanently”.

Bruce took the flash drive. “Alright. I'll see what I can do.”


	2. Out of Left Field

Earth was clearly visible from the Watchtower monitor womb. He remembered a time, before the existence of their space station, before the Justice League, when he would fly up to the upper tiers of the atmosphere to gaze at its serene beauty. Sight of the big blue orb had always brought him a sense of catharsis. He could still do that, simply fly up, but nowadays it was far more convenient to watch the earth from their orbital headquarters' windows.

Clark Kent, better known to the world as Superman, gazed down upon his adopted home planet. The world also knew him by his human name now, because of a careless email breach that revealed not just his, but the secret identities of several Justice League members during the early 2040s. It had been a public relations disaster, he remembered, and his fellow League members who got affected had scrambled to put their lives in order.

Thankfully in his case, the reveal of his identity had happened when it no longer mattered. When his wife and son were both already dead.

Many years ago he had married Lois Lane after a turbulent courtship. They had a son almost immediately afterward, Jon Kent, named after Clark’s adoptive human father. But Jon had always been sickly. The boy would have periods where he would display his father’s superpowers, then suddenly come down with an unexplained cough or fainting spells. Clark wasn’t sure if it was because Jon was a hybrid, a proof that human and Kryptonian genes were never destined to mix, or if it was just because they were unlucky. Young Jon Kent never made it past the age of ten.

The loss of Jon brought trouble into their marriage, for a while, but they managed to carefully work it out. Clark and Lois remained happily together for many more years. Their union was blessed with no further children. It all began to end when Lois came down with lung cancer.

He had tried everything to save her. He got her the best doctors. His heat vision performed chemotherapy better than any human-built machine in any medical facility could have done. He visited other planets to find nanotechnology and alien medicine, worlds as far away as the deepest recesses of the known universe. They used experimental bleeding-edge techniques of modern human medicine. In desperation they even tried traditional alternative medicine like acupuncture and acupressure. In the end, none of his attempts had worked. Lois went peacefully to sleep one night and simply never woke up again.

He was devastated. All his strength, all his power, flown like nothing in the face of death. Abilities that let him carry entire worlds upon his shoulder had not been enough to save the woman he loved.

After Lois had died, he had changed his League uniform to a white-and-black Kryptonian suit in an ineffective attempt to distance himself from the sadness of losing his earth family. He moved to his fortress of solitude at the North pole, leaving everything behind that reminded him of them.

Solitude indeed. The isolation had helped him cope, for a while. And then he felt the world once again beckon him.

Ten years was a long time to mourn. He had put the Kryptonian suit away, and hoped he would never have cause to garb himself in black again. Once more he had taken to wearing red and blue. For although he was Kal-El, biological child of Jor-El and Lara of Krypton, fundamentally, Superman would always also be Clark Kent, son of Jonathan and Martha Kent, the human boy who grew up in the farmlands of Kansas.

The prolonged stay at the fortress had aged him. The North pole stood at the apex of the earth where sunlight was weakest, and in fact spent six months of each year in perpetual nightfall. Now that he spent almost the entirety of his days back in the Watchtower, so close to the sun and without the insulating layers of atmosphere, his Kryptonian body had regenerated. Not quite to his full prime, but he got pretty close. He smirked. Good old Sol, his own personal brand of ambrosia.

Time does heal all wounds, and over the years he had thought about Lois and Jon less and less. Taking leadership of the Justice League rejuvenated him more than anything. The League was able to help so many. It gave purpose to his continued existence.

He walked from the Watchtower windows to his terminal. League membership would hit two hundred very soon at their current rate of recruitment, but that number included those who had already retired or left for whatever reason. Currently there were eighty active members. Quite a number to keep track of all at once.

J’onn J’onzz, Mr. Terrific and himself rotated on eight-hour shifts to ensure that the League had an active handler at all hours. The three of them were the primary, but other members would pitch in as handlers whenever necessary, depending on who was needed where. Wonder Woman was often Clark's alternate. Right now she was out on field duty.

Recently, field duty meant going up again and again against a pirate group with weapons that somehow managed to render the League members helpless. Specifically, the problem stemmed from a special kind of black rope, which were further manufactured into bolas and bola launchers.

Bola launchers were primarily used for game hunting. To their knowledge, there were no laws anywhere governing bolas, effectively making them legal. Rope, certainly, was perfectly legal everywhere.

If the ropes could bind Wonder Woman, second to him in raw strength, they could bind any member of the League. That meant Superman was the only metahuman unaffected. He was only a commlink message away for those in the public field, so they could always call for rescue in a pinch. But how many of their undercover agents—whom he could not help—had been already hurt?

J'onn J'onzz materialized in front of him. Clark asked, “Is my shift over?”

“Yes,” J'onn answered.

Clark hadn't noticed. “I got a tip that the weapons supplier is directly controlled by the Chinese government. We can’t touch them until they’ve exchanged hands, or risk international war.” He sighed heavily. “We’re up against something completely legal, after all.”

“An anonymous tip?”

“Not quite anonymous. It’s from an internal encrypted line. Number one.” Line number one had not been used for fifty years. The line self-updated its encryption algorithms, so it remained secure half a century on. “J’onn, can you give me a recap? What do we have so far?”

“We know that a large cargo of the weapons recently made its way stateside, fifty crates of a hundred each. We know there was only a single shipment, en masse, and that it came via sea, but we don't know its port of entry. The group we’re up against is in a hurry to get the weapons distributed to their individual cells. We don’t know how many cells, or how many per cell.”

“How bad is our situation overall?”

“There hasn’t been any notable change in crime rates anywhere. Yet. I suspect the group is wary of us and is biding its time before it strikes.” J’onn went over to his terminal to bring up his notes. “The Flash is searching for the weapons’ port of entry. His last message was from Central City, but I highly doubt he is still there. He strongly suspects the weapons came in through the East Coast, but his search will take him wider. He plans to first go through the southern states. Depending on what he finds he may continue south or head back northeast towards the ports of Gotham, or New York, or New Jersey. We received no communication from him for the past two days. However, his tracker is still pinging.”

“Have you tried telepathically calling him?”

J’onn nodded. “Yes, but I have not found him. Although he is Wally’s nephew, I don't have as strong an affinity with him like I do with you and Diana—the founders, for that matter. I don't hear his mind calling unless I knew his exact location or he is relatively nearby.” He paused expectantly. “I would like to refrain from making planet-wide scans unless we are certain it's an emergency.”

“I understand,” Clark agreed. The latter task was extremely draining for the Martian.

Clark’s communicator beeped. He put it to his ear. “Kal,” said Wonder Woman. “We need you in Argentina, now.”

“Same group with the bola launchers and unbreakable rope?”

“Yes.”

“On my way.”

 

The moon shone bright over the slums of Gotham. Past midnight in the cold weather, the streets were almost completely devoid of human life. Near a creek stood a somewhat remarkable building. A warehouse, small by most standards, four stories high, aluminum roof with plain whitewashed walls. What made this particular building remarkable was the six-foot tall bat that had attached itself to one of the uppermost ventilation windows.

After a few more minutes, a cutter firmly grasped in his hands, the masked bat finally managed to break through the window glass. He let the severed piece fall inside where it shattered twenty meters down. He shoved his hand through the hole and turned the handle to open the window pane.

This building would mark the third empty warehouse Terry McGinnis visited that night in his search for the pirate group’s main weapon stash.

He entered and jumped down, then proceeded to scour the area for clues. He found precious few items of interest to report. He was certainly correct that the group had been here. The crate markings all matched with those from other locations. The level of dust on the office desks and bathroom fixtures indicated to him that the building had been abandoned approximately two days ago.

He walked over to a stack of wooden crates. All empty. On a hunch, based on some ground markings, he pushed the stack sideways for about a meter. Bingo. He found… junk. But it was interesting junk. Green fur from Beastman. A scrap of blue cloth that looks like it was torn from Static Shock’s coat.

Did the League get into a fight? He quickly turned around, looking over the scenery again with the new assumption in mind.

No, there had been no fighting here. These were souvenirs that had been carried over—accidentally or intentionally, he had no way of finding out—when the group had retreated from some other battle.

He wasn't aware of any casualties or recent major injuries from the League. Assuredly he would have heard if anything like that had happened. Now that Bruce was active again he was certain his mentor and Superman have resumed communications. He facepalmed. Oh yeah, he completely forgot that Bruce was married to Wonder Woman.

That was going to take him some getting used to. Geriatric Bruce getting married had been well within the realm of his imagination, but who would have thought that out of twelve billion people in the world, he would tie the knot with Wonder Woman? A total ball out of left field. How many more secrets did that senile old coot keep hidden? Did he and Matt have a half-sibling, maybe? More than one? Half-breeds with powers?? He laughed at the thought. He decided he wasn't going to dwell on it.

Nothing left to see in this building. He climbed back out from the window he entered the warehouse in. Once outside, he looked around for a tall perch he could use as a vantage point. He saw a water tower a few blocks to his northwest, and he promptly went there. He used his retractable wings and leapt towards its topmost platform.

Terry stood up and _looked,_ his gaze poring over the city, taking in all its sights, sounds and smells.

He flipped a switch on his visor, which turned on his suit’s detective mode and gesture input. He moved his fingers and arms in the air to overlay his case notes over the buildings. One by one, he mapped the warehouses he had visited over the past nights and tried to determine a path or a pattern. Nothing. He mapped the locations in the order they were abandoned instead of the order he visited them. Still he saw no pattern. How about more than one trail? He tried mapping the points into two separate paths, came up empty, and then he tried three. At three paths he finally saw it.

The trails were leading to the Gotham docks. From the docks the nearest large city would be Metropolis, but that was only one of many possible connecting locations. Plus, there was the chance that the Gotham docks were in fact where the main stash was being kept. That actually would make sense, as Gotham was one of the country’s largest influx ports—one of the top five in terms of sheer volume of traded goods.

But why choose Gotham, a den of iniquity and home of the infamous Bat? Maybe there was something bigger going on than the weapon stash? On the other hand, maybe it was as simple as they just didn't have a choice on which port of entry.

He needed to find out more. He glanced at his chronometer, which indicated 2:47 a.m. Time to call it a night. The trail could wait. He had a family and a day job to consider.

 

Bartholomew Henry Allen the Second was from the future. The 30th century in fact. But the 30th century was a troubled time, and Bart had never managed to find himself there. Born to extraordinary parents, his powers ran wilder than that of most speedsters in history. No matter how hard he struggled he could not learn control. At the suggestion of his grandfather, he set out through the time stream to find himself a proper teacher, one who would not be daunted by the challenges presented by his unique physique.

And so Bart had found a home in the 2050s, where his distant uncle Wally West had risen to the task of helping him rein in his talents. For several years Wally tutored him on harnessing his powers and the speed force, before the latter retired. Wally left the young man to the care of the Justice League, and permanently passed onto him the mantle of the Flash.

Bart didn't mind his uncle's retirement, even if he missed the older man a lot. He had been more than ready to join the Justice League full time. He was eager to prove himself.

His current mission was to find the source of the weapons that could disable the Justice League's powers. He had not yet encountered these weapons first-hand, but he had heard the stories, read the reports, and seen the injuries. He had been the one to assist Warhawk to the medbay when the half-Thanagarian hero returned from a skirmish with his right radius and ulna severely fractured. It was not often that League members could get injured so gravely. Finding—and stopping—the weapons was critical to the League's survival.

From his hometown of Central he had detoured south to Texas, then to New Orleans, and he eliminated those states from the list of possible sources. Next on his route was back north to Gotham before heading further east.

The core of his search were ports of entry—meaning the Gotham docks. But the docks were huge. Technically he could brute-force each and every warehouse there, but he would waste too much time doing so. Based on a clue he found at a warehouse in Starling City, he needed to first visit a factory in the slums which may contain information that could narrow his search area.

When he got there, the factory’s back door was unlocked. Should he be suspicious? Was a toilet paper factory paranoid about security? He entered carefully. The place was full of stacks of toilet paper. Well, what had he been expecting?

He needed to find the office. As he turned a corner, he tripped over a loose floor panel. Nothing happened, luckily. He continued along the hall more carefully. When he got to the middle of the next corridor, he quickly discovered he had hit jackpot in the worst possible way.

Bolas tied with black rope shot towards him from many heights and directions. He weaved, he twirled, and evaded each one. To his enhanced speed, the bolas were so slow they might as well be unmoving. He counted fifty in all before the barrage finally ended.

As he began to rebalance himself, two bolas came at him at varying speeds. The slower one shot at him first, and then the faster second bola overtook the first in mid-flight towards him. The differing velocities of the projectiles caught him off-guard. But he was good. He avoided these two as well. Not as easily as the first fifty, but he managed.

A fifty-third bola shot at him from behind, and he was finally caught. The thick black cordon bound his arms tightly to his chest.

This was bad. But no biggie, he still had a way to escape. He drew on the speed force and made his individual molecules vibrate rapidly. He started to phase out.

He abruptly phased back in again. “What the—?”

Sharp pain erupted from between his shoulder blades as a guard came seemingly from nowhere and clubbed him with a rifle butt. He found himself knocked down with his face upon the ground. The rifle butt pressed onto his nape to keep him from getting up.

He heard footsteps. He counted no less than ten pairs of booted feet as they surrounded him. The most impressive pair was smaller than the rest. Female.

Hands pulled him upright and he was face-to-face with the owner of the boots. Five-feet high, semi-muscular build, fair skin, brown eyes, dark plum lipstick, large scar on the left side of her chin. Her long hair was tied in a ponytail and dyed a bright reddish purple.

“You can't escape. Go ahead and try,” she taunted. He couldn't place her accent. “Look, we won't even point our guns at you.” She waved her hand, and all her men save for two guards backed away, rifles held at ease.

His first thought was he wasn't going to fall for so obvious a trap.

“Go on, your legs are free. Try running.”

His second thought was, why the heck not? If it was a trap so be it. He ran. _At normal human speed._ A guard caught him by the waist after he managed to run for a few meters.

The woman laughed at his antics. Then, abruptly, her expression changed to one of hate. She cocked her gun at him. “Should I just kill you? Common sense tells me—screams at me—that I should kill you. But that Martian might sense it.” For indeed the moment of death involved a cacophonous mental cry of pain. “We still can't afford to take the entire Justice League head on.”

She put her gun away and turned to the guard on his right, who seemed to be her second-in-command, “Frisk him. Find his commlink and the secondary one.”

Her lieutenant frisked him carefully. The man found his League communicator, several dollars in bills and coins, ration bars, and a few other odds and ends. “There's no secondary commlink.”

“We're not taking risks. Get rid of his entire costume and put him in one of our uniforms. Or a sack, I don't care what you put him in. Take all those piercings off him. Then go lose all of his stuff in the city sewers, quickly. One of his things certainly has an emergency tracking device of sorts. That's how Static Shock got rescued in Nevada. We don't want to prematurely alert the League by destroying it.”

Bart felt his heart jump to his throat. They knew about the emergency trackers.

“Once that's all done, you can die here after we clear our stuff out. Let's find out how quickly it will take the Flash with his notorious metabolism to starve to death.”

The men proceeded to remove his mask and his piercings. When they were through with his face and moved on to removing his costume, he turned his head to the woman and asked, “Who are you?”

She gave him a demeaning look, as if she thought he was beneath her. She answered him anyway, “We are Anarchy. We are Black Flag. Our mission and vision is to have our footprint in every city in the world. But the Justice League keeps getting in our way.”

Again he asked, “I meant, who are you?”

She smiled, malicious yet gruesomely beautiful. “You don't need to know my name.”

A blindfold went over his eyes.


	3. Stay Out of Gotham

If a reporter came up to Clark Kent at that moment, to ask him why he was wallowing along the muck of the Gotham sewers in civilian attire, the most convenient answer would have been because he spectacularly lost a three-way draw between J’onn, Diana and himself on who was going to go. It would not have been a truthful statement, but he wished it was, over the actuality.

Bart’s tracker had stopped moving.

Mr. Terrific was the one who first noticed the unusual behavior. The League’s emergency trackers were by necessity weak and pinged home only once per hour, to make them undetectable by all except the most sensitive electronic scanners. Halfway through Mr. Terrific’s shift, he had noticed that Bart had not moved away from the middle of an empty baseball field in the Gotham slums. He had decided to wait and observe for a few hours. When his shift ended and Clark's shift started, Bart had still not moved. The League had then gone into full alert.

Clark’s x-ray vision zoom into the area showed him an empty field. They concluded that Bart was underground. Which meant the sewers. Who was to go?

Under regular circumstances, J’onn J’onzz the telekinetic shapeshifter would be the obvious choice. Yesterday they had tested for the effects of the black rope on him. While his telepathic ability was unaffected, the rope could completely disable his shapeshifting and thus his phasing through materials. Like every other league member, he too was unable to break free when tied up with the rope.

Ergo the burden of the Gotham sewers fell upon Clark Kent, the only metahuman known to be immune to the weapon’s debilitating capability. Since he had to navigate through the densely-populated city slums to reach the sewers, as a precaution, he went incognito. J’onn, invisible, was on standby immediately above ground in case he suddenly needed backup. Diana remained at the Watchtower as the team handler.

They still had no idea what the rope was made of. Secretly, he had been hoping that someone else—who while not a League member was certainly on their side—would have figured it out already. But he had received no new messages from Bruce, whether directly via the Watchtower internal communication lines, or otherwise. Diana had assured him the Bats were working on their side of it. He would be the first know if they have any findings, but they had no information for the League at present.

It took him about fifteen minutes of trudging through the muck before he finally found what he was looking for. An empty Flash costume, floating in a knee-deep puddle. He picked it up. The costume was dirty but intact. He used his enhanced vision to scan around, and one by one he found the rest of Bart’s things.

He turned on his commlink and said, “Just found the tracker in Bart’s earring, but no Bart. It looks like he took off his costume and flushed all his stuff down a sewer drain. His notebook is here too. It's soaked—unreadable now. I'm going to continue searching.”

“No good, Kal,” Wonder Woman told him. “Ravager just pinged. They need you in Moscow immediately.”

He let out a frustrated sigh. He was loathe to drop the search, but he wasn't about to let the other team down. Which need was more immediate? Bart’s costume was whole, with no sign of foul play or anything to indicate that he hadn’t removed it himself (even if that didn't make sense). The other team, he was certain, was in the middle of a battle and likely already losing.

At super speed, he wrapped all of Bart’s odds and ends inside the Flash costume to make a small bundle. He changed out of his civilian clothes. He added his own clothes to the bundle and quickly headed to the nearest sewer exit. He would stash the package into one of the League's dead drops before flying off to Russia.

He fervently hoped he had just picked the correct choice.

 

By day, Terry McGinnis worked as an automotive factory manager for a foreign car manufacturer that specialized in economy and electric cars. Despite his close ties with Bruce, he had firmly decided years ago to choose a place of employment that did not fall under the Wayne Enterprises mega-conglomerate. Maybe it was principle, maybe it was pride—even back when he had first completed college and was looking for his first job—he could not tell what it was inside him that made him take this decision, only that it was the morally correct one.

Not once had Bruce ever questioned him. The understanding between them ran that deeply. Terry was certain that whatever Bruce may have felt about it, he nonetheless continued to do the old man proud.

He and Dana had moved to the suburbs after their marriage and started a family. His job allowed them to live quite comfortably, while remaining solidly middle-class. By some miracle of impeccable time-management, he managed to continue the Gotham Bat’s nightly patrols. With Bruce's support, they had set up a compact bat-den of his own at the new McGinnis’s four-bedroom bungalow across town. He no longer had to visit the cave at Wayne manor, which saved him a couple of hours of daily transit time. That day, however, Bruce had asked him to come to the manor in person.

Early in the evening, after his work and a short commute across the city, he exited out of the elevator that lead from manor into the Batcave. He looked around. The cave had changed quite a bit in the short month he was away. Bruce had been busy.

The server rack was bigger. He remembered when he first explored the caves he had seen the retired Cray supercomputers that Bruce used to use. That had changed in the 2020s, during the late Information Revolution, when cloud computing and big data had boomed into a worldwide phenomenon. Bruce had changed the bat computer setup into a Beowulf system, just like the setups that the military think-tanks had then recently adopted but universities with limited budgets had been using for decades. Advancements in technology in a capitalist society had made the most powerful computers cheap and available to the masses. Whenever they needed more processing power, they replaced the outdated cores with whichever was most easily available in the market. Or they simply added more cores.

The new system was far easier to maintain and upgrade than a single supercomputer that needed replacing every five years. Simple and cost-effective was the best kind of solution, as per Batman’s policy. Offhand, Terry wondered what the world would think if they knew Batman used a modified version of Linux and open source software.

For security, the batcomputer was not connected to the internet, and thus not remotely accessible. They used a secondary machine for access to the world wide web and other communication needs. Alfred’s voice alone of all the batcomputer modules—the one set of files that could never be reconstructed if lost—had been backed up into the earth’s data cloud.

He walked deeper into the cave, taking him past the computer servers to the workshop area. Several prototypes of whatever Bruce was working on were scattered in a haphazard yet oddly systematic fashion on the floor and tables. The red couch beside the main worktable was new. The particular shade of crimson was familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. It was not a color that he recognized Bruce to use. Then he realized the piece of furniture wasn't a couch, but instead a convertible double-bed. He abruptly put a halt to his train of thought. Whatever his mentor did with a double bed by his worktable was his own business.

A little further on, he found his mentor facing the glow of the batcomputer terminal. “Terry,” Bruce turned to him in welcome.

He acknowledged the older man with a wave. “What’s up? You figured out the ropes?” He meant the question literally, referring to the adamantine ropes used by the pirate group against the Justice League.

“Yes, and more with your brother Matt's help.” Bruce turned back to his terminal, “Alfred, show us the simulations.” The monitor screen flashed with the close-up diagram of a chemical molecular structure. To the side, a smaller video played which showed Bruce's experiments on the material.

Terry observed. He made a guess as to what the experiments implied to him, “Let me get this straight. The material negates all forces that touch it?”

Bruce replied in the affirmative. “The harder you push against it, the harder it pushes back. It reflects changes in thermal energy, so heating or cooling has no effect on it. Try to vibrate against it, and it vibrates 180 degrees off-phase to negate the initial vibration. Try to alter its molecular structure, and it will resist. Try to alter your own molecular structure while in contact with it, and it will negate your attempts.”

“That cancels Flash’s or Martian Manhunter’s phasing.”

“Exactly. There’s also something about the material that negates magic. Alfred, show us the equations,” he turned again to the computer. The screen changed to show several math equations.

Terry frowned at the monitor. He was—but realized he probably shouldn’t be—surprised that Bruce had boiled down an approximation of magic to a bunch of numbers. “Bruce, those look like antimatter formulas.”

Bruce shook his head in the negative. “It’s not. The coefficients are all different. This compound is also too stable to be antimatter.”

“Should I be impressed?”

Bruce shrugged. “I am. Effectively it can cancel every known superpower that comes into contact with it. However, it is inert unless there is an external force applied. It has no effect on normals. In other words,” Bruce paused for emphasis, “it is completely harmless. There is no court on earth that would criminalize this.”

Terry let the information sink in. After a while, he exclaimed, “Okay, the science just went over my head. Let's be practical. How do we break it?”

“Intense polarized energy. Emphasis on polarized. Strong lasers, like Superman’s eye beams.”

“Huh. What is it actually made of?”

“It's made out of a special type of silicon-carbon compound. But not silicon carbide.”

“Extremely common elements. That's why it's so cheap.”

“It's the manufacturing process that makes it special. There are only two laboratories worldwide that are capable of it—both happen to be located stateside—Palmer Industries and Routhe Laboratories. You know Ray Palmer, the Atom? He was a member of the League briefly, and there's no way his company would be the pirates’ supplier. That leaves us with just Routhe Laboratories. By the way, Palmer and Routhe used to be close friends and business partners. I don't know how much Routhe knows about the League, but I wouldn't be surprised if he was aware of some doings.”

“Does Routhe have direct ties to the pirates?”

“Yes. In Matt’s investigation he discovered that Routhe is in fact one of their main leaders. Routhe sends the raw material to companies abroad—whichever company gives him the best deal—where it is manufactured into the bolas.”

“Do we finally have a name for the group?”

Bruce had found the name in Matt’s files. “Black Flag.”

Terry facepalmed. He seemed to be doing that a lot recently. “The waving black flag symbols on all those crates should have been a giveaway, huh?”

“They're some kind of international modern-day mafia. At least, they’re trying to be. They tried to take on the Chinese Triads. Failing there, they're now trying to get a foothold in the rest of the world, which pits them directly against the Justice League. The group traces its origins from Somalia but they are now based in North America. Very young criminal org, barely three years old.”

“Even with the power-negating weapons they would never win against the League.”

“Gotta give them credit for being ambitious. To the point of delusional.”

“So they flared fast and are going to die young, eh?”

“Looks like it, if the League can hold their end.”

“And they will.” No doubt. Terry walked over to an empty desk and dropped his backpack on it. He pulled out his batsuit from the bag. As he started to change into his costume, Bruce stood up and walked over to a storage closet to retrieve a device.

Bruce handed the contraption to fully-suited Terry. It was a small cylinder, half the size of a pen, with two prongs that made it look like a caliper. “Laser cutter. Good for the black rope, and for cutting other things.”

Terry nodded. “Alright, I'm going. We still need to find where they keep their stockpile.”

Bruce had something final to say before Terry went out. “Can you take a detour before you resume searching for the main weapons stash? I just got a message from a boy scout asking for help, since this is our city and we know it best…”

 

The League was in a bit of a riot.

After Russia, ten encounters against the pirate group erupted across the globe all at once. Asia, South America, Africa, Australia. The group attacked public buildings in attempt to draw the Justice League into conflict. The League’s active members were suddenly stretched thin.

J’onn commented, it was as if the group were getting desperate.

Salvation came in the form of Wonder Woman, who had all of a sudden taken a short flight and returned to the tower with a package containing a handful of laser cutters. A gift from their friends from Gotham. She and Clark had quickly flown to distribute the cutters to the teams already out on the field. Clark took the Western hemisphere, while Diana took east.

The cutters’ existence spelled the end of the pirate group. The pirates had no metahumans in their ranks, and with their weapons rendered useless, the skirmishes ended so quickly it wasn’t even funny.

Wonder Woman and Green Lantern were still out in the field when Clark had returned to the Watchtower. His communicator beeped.

Diana’s voice on the other end told him, “East hemisphere is now clear. Kylo and I are heading back.”

“Great. Diana, how are you?”

“No injuries whatsoever. We’re fine here.”

“How's your leg? You were limping slightly this morning.”

Awkward pause. Finally, she replied, “I was helping Bruce with his experiments earlier. Nothing to do with the pirates. I'm alright.” Clark could swear, with his enhanced hearing he heard her mutter, _The rest is none of anybody's business…_

Oddly, that statement made him worry about her even more.

“What are we doing about Bart?” J’onn wanted to know.

“I've already sent backup for him.”

 

Superman’s message had included the locations from where Bart’s tracker had pinged. With one ping only once every hour, and with Flash moving as fast as… well, the Flash, Terry had had a lot of ground to cover. He narrowed his search area to where the pings began to get close together, indicating where Bart had started losing speed. The factory in the slums looked most promising.

All the lights were out when Terry arrived at the abandoned toilet paper factory. He carefully circled around the building, checking for signs of human activity. Satisfied that the place was truly abandoned, he headed for the back door.

It was unlocked. Convenient. Either it was a trap… or they didn’t care.

Terry walked through the corridors. Empty room on his left. Empty room on his right. Empty pantry. Stray cat at the end of the hall. Empty room, with desks. Stairs up. Empty corridor. All rooms on the second floor empty. If Terry could take pride in anything it was that he was thorough. He went back down to the ground floor, then found stairs to the basement.

What one searched for was always in the last place one looked, because when one found it, the search was over.

A man lay in a dark corner of the basement in a fetal position, wearing camouflage, a canvas sack over his head. The fact that the body was tied up with the black rope indicated to him that this was a metahuman. He cut the ropes off post haste, then helped the man sit up.

He pulled the sack off to reveal Bart Allen’s face. The latter quickly broke into a lopsided grin.

“Never thought I’d be this happy to see the scowling rubber face of a giant man-bat.”

Terry tsked. Bart looked haggard, but didn’t seem like he was hurt anywhere. “Ouch. So they discovered your secret identity?”

Bart winced. “Actually, I don't think she cared a single whit.”

“Couldn't phase through it, huh?”

“Nope. Couldn't generate a time clone either. Have you figured out what this stuff is?”

“Kinda. Obviously, I broke you out of it. How about you?”

“No clue.”

“Too bad. Did you get what you need?”

“Enough.”

The bat helped Bart stand up. After making sure the former captive was alright, Terry warned him, “Stay out of Gotham.”

“Heh.” Bart didn't take offense. He knew Terry’s mannerisms. “Keep your criminals in it, then.”

Within a literal flash, he was gone.


	4. Ghosts

Late in the afternoon on the following day, Terry McGinnis anxiously entered the batcave. “Alfred, news,” he said as walked towards the workshop area. Alfred obliged him. The large wall monitor turned on.

_Justice League Stops Terror Attacks_

He stood to observe the montage currently displaying on the screen. Public square in Rio de Janeiro reduced to rubble. Raging fire in a wet market in Vietnam. Collapsed subway station in Sydney. Terry shook his head in disbelief.

“Say, Bruce…?” He asked tentatively, his eyes glued to the screen as he tried to process all of the newsreel images. He heard the old man grunt an affirmative. He asked, “Is it okay if I do a recap?”

“Go ahead,” Bruce replied from deeper in the cave.

“Okay. Just bullet points. Black Flag is a criminal organization who have been into all sorts of questionable activities. Mostly piracy and smuggling.”

“Huh."

“Someone figured out how to manufacture weapons that negate superpowers, and said weapons are legal. Black Flag procured these weapons and are using them to fight the Justice League.”

“Huh.”

“Our immediate task is to get rid of the weapon stockpile. And we still have to stop the source of the weapons at its root, afterwards.”

“Huh.”

“That was before all this happened,” Terry waved his arm to indicate the news montage. “Black Flag attacked public centers yesterday, with casualties. Now they’re officially a terrorist organization.”

“Huh.”

“From simple piracy to all-out terrorism. It’s a drastic departure from their past routine. I don’t get it at all. I thought they were profit-driven. These aren’t the actions of people who are only in it for the money.”

“Huh.” Bruce stepped out from behind one of the computer racks. He shrugged his shoulders. “Far be it for us to understand the minds of deranged criminals. Let’s just shut them down and put an end to their misery.”

Terry pursed his lips, not quite ready to drop his train of thought. In the end, he decided to let it go. They had more pressing matters to attend to.

“Got the address?” Bruce asked while motioning for Terry to come towards the worktable, where several pieces of equipment were laid out. All in varying shades of black, naturally.

“Affirmative. I already input the coordinates on the batmobile,” Terry replied. He noted what the older man was wearing. A variant of his own batsuit, no cape, and the symbol on the chest was gray. He couldn't help but be excited, “This is a joint mission? About time, I say.”

“Just for today,” Bruce clarified. He handed a bundle to Terry. “Go get changed.”

Terry did so. Bruce inspected his handiwork. Full-body military fatigues, black urban camo. Twin waist packs instead of their regular utility belts. Round helmet with a mirrored visor that completely covered Terry’s face. No bat ears, and no insignias anywhere. The younger man flexed his limbs to get a feel for the armor. “This is extremely comfortable. I may not want to go back to using the exosuits after this.”

“I'll take that into consideration.”

“So I can't cloak?”

“You can. It's fitted with an experimental prototype, a different technology from the nanoLED mesh. We're going against normals today so it should suffice. I’m the one who can’t cloak, since I ran out of prototypes to fit both our suits.” The older man pulled on his mask. “Let’s go.”

 

Terry adjusted his binoculars for a better view. He and Bruce stood on a warehouse rooftop adjacent to their target. The sun hung low on the horizon. It was about fifteen minutes from sunset. Beginning the mission at dusk was ideal for the bat men’s purposes—the time of day when it was neither dark enough nor light enough, when unaided eyes have difficulty adjusting to the shadows. And as the night wore on, the more they would blend into the darkness.

Their target was a supply lot on the edge of the river. No buildings, only container vans piled onto stacks in a grid-like manner. Forty pirates in all, scattered into groups at strategic locations.

Plan: disable the pirates, drag their bodies to the side of the lot, then blow up the containers using targeted explosions that would keep the damage to a minimum. Terry took a deep breath. With forty pirates to take out, this was going to take them a while.

“It's been decades since your last field trip, old man. You still remember our modus?”

“We go in through the front door with guns blazing. The louder, the better. They'll never know what hit them.”

“Right.” Terry knew sarcasm when he heard it. “Y’know, mom always said I didn't get my sense of humor from her.”

A hand signal. An acknowledgment. Terry turned on his suit’s cloaking shield. In another moment the rooftop where they stood was empty.

 

It started from the north end of the lot. The single guards would find themselves caught in a sleeper hold, a black-gloved arm against their throats, then dragged away after they turned unconscious. Those in groups got incapacitated using quick-acting tranquilizers.

The pirates on the south side were next. They started dropping, as if by some invisible force, one by one.

 

Bruce had just neutralized a trio of guards when he found himself face-to-face with a purple-haired female in military fatigues. He noted the scar on the left side of her mouth.

“One on one with the fabled Bat of Gotham.” She smirked.

“You’re a meta,” he whispered. He had seen her materialize out of thin air.

“Lowest ranked Class E and proud of it. I may only have the ability to phase through objects, but I’m a simple girl—it’s enough for my needs.” She exclaimed, “I want my monologue.”

“No.”

“You could say I demand it.”

She jump-kicked. He dodged, but she hadn’t been aiming for him. The stack of crates at his side crashed down towards both of them, the weapons it contained spilling all around. She phased through the falling crates while he barely had enough time to twist and protect himself. A heavy pallet pinned him down, too heavy to lift. But he could still move. He groped in his belt for a tool he could use to get free. Laser cutter? Slow. Possible. No choice.

“Frankly, you’re not the one I want to monologue to. Maybe you can relay my message instead.” Her voice sounded from above him. He continued cutting.

“I wasn’t born a meta. Y’know those movies where a crazy evil organization hires mad scientists and forces them to experiment on street urchins? Guess what? That really happens. I was one. I was five when they took me and my friends from the streets of Macedonia. Sole survivor.”

He heard explosions from the south. That could only mean that Terry had successfully neutralized all the others. It was just him and Violet now. The speech was unceasing.

“It was painful. All of my friends died, one by one, succumbing to the drugs. I was raped and tortured. But instead of breaking me it made me stronger.

“There was one thing I remember the most. One day, I had just been kidnapped and too young to know what was going on, Superman came to the village. Others were with him but I don't remember who. He was right there, just out the window, so close I felt that I could have reached him. He could have saved me. Saved all of us. Why didn’t he? I shouted at him and was beaten for it.” She spat in disdain. “Selective super hearing. But I suppose I should be grateful he ignored me, since I’ve come to love my powers.”

At the back of his mind he remembered. This had happened around the time Jon Kent died. The Kryptonian’s grief for his son had been so acute it affected him during missions, especially those that brought him near young ones. Likely, it was not that Superman didn't hear, but he had been so overcome with emotion that he could dare to do nothing except leave.

Clark had been in mourning for Jon when Bruce came down with the stroke that had paralyzed his left leg.

None of it mattered to the ghosts of dead children. Thirty years gone.

He finally broke the pallet that was holding him down and promptly got onto his feet. She materialized beside him. He blocked, successfully. They exchanged blows. One of his punches connected with her stomach, sending her sprawling backwards. She cursed loudly.

He hazarded a guess, “Your powers have a time limit, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“It’s your monologue.”

As Bruce stepped towards her, she flipped backwards to stand. She ran away from him to the opposite end of another stack of containers, dove behind it, then rolled out the other side with a grenade launcher in her hands. Grinning wickedly, she aimed it at him. “Let's see how the human Bat does against an old-fashioned RPG!”

The Bat stopped prone where he stood. “If you kill me, I can't relay your message.”

“Shut up!” She pulled the trigger, and a grenade lurched directly towards his head.

The sonic boom came milliseconds before the explosion hit him. Rather, the explosion _didn't_ hit him. An invisible shield, about a meter wide, kept the flames and shrapnel from dealing him any damage.

The purple-haired lady was thrown at Bruce's feet, unconscious. He quickly twisted her arms behind her back and tied her with one of the power-negating ropes lying nearby.

The remaining weapon crates one by one imploded into themselves, as if hit from above by a human-sized mallet. For good measure, a container van fell overboard with a splash. Then everything went silent, as if the phantom who had wrought all the destruction simply went up and flew off.

Terry was confused as he walked towards the older man. “What the heck was that?”

Bruce made certain there was no one within earshot before he answered, “My wife. I fitted her armor with a cloaking shield, same as what you're using now. She makes a better field tester than you do, no offense.”

“None taken.”

“We don't want anyone figuring out our link, hence the cloak. She insisted I carry an emergency beacon for her at all times, after what happened last episode.” He sighed, “This will cost me another museum date to New York.”

 

While police sirens blared, Barbara Gordon stepped out of the lead squad car. She made a beeline for the pair of men in black, “What the heck happened here?”

The bat said, “Operational hazards.” He pointed to an unconscious figure. “Violet over there is guilty of kidnapping and attempted murder. We don't know her real name. You should get a statement from Bartholomew Allen of Central City. We'll email you with the details.”

“She’s Black Flag, isn’t she? Wanted terrorist. There’s no need for the extra charges, but thanks. Every little bit that we could stick on her would help.” Barbara paused, and she wasn’t happy. “I should arrest you for property damage.”

“We didn't do it.”

In a lowered voice, she asked, “Which Batman am I taking to?”

The man in urban camo answered, “The senile one is wearing the suit.”

Barbara frowned, puzzled. “You've got extra suits, so why…? Oh. Didn't want to accidentally tip any villains off of the new status quo, eh?” She raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Is it a new status quo?”

The bat said, “No. He owns Gotham for as long as he wants it. I just needed to test my wings out.”

“You guys have left me one heck of a mess to clean up, as usual.” She looked around, taking mental notes. After her quick scan, she turned back to them only to find the two men gone. “And I'm once more talking to myself, also as usual.”

 

“I overheard you and Purple talking,” Terry mentioned offhand. He rode shotgun while Bruce steered the batmobile across the dark Gotham streets. “That was… tough, for her. But I know you guys. If it had been possible that you could have done anything for them, you would have. Whatever happened in her past, she is obviously in her right mind now. Her decision to stay with the pirates and use her power to hurt other innocent people—that is on her alone.”

Bruce nodded, almost imperceptibly. “You've been in this business long enough, Terry. Nothing is black and white. And there are some things that never get easier.”

Terry changed the subject. “It's not over yet. We still need to stop the source of the black material.”

“You can stop worrying about that,” Bruce exclaimed. Terry glanced at him in question. “As of last week, Harper Consolidated and LexCorp have jointly managed to purchase most of Routhe Laboratories. Oliver Harper just sealed the deciding deal today that will give him majority stake.” Oliver Harper, son of Roy Harper and Thea Queen and named after Thea’s brother, was a League member and the current Green Arrow. “Routhe Laboratories is as good as belonging to the League.

“You should take your brother to dinner or something. Charge it to the company. He dug up most of the dirt we got on Routhe so we could hold the buyout.”

 

The lights in the Wayne manor were dim, except for a single room in the east wing.

He found Diana on the floor by the fireplace, wearing skinny shorts and one of his oversize gray T-shirts. He smirked. She made his shirts look good. Her nose was buried in yet another book—Norse mythology this time. Ace, his Great Dane of a hound, lay with his canine head on Diana's lap. She absently scratched behind the big dog's ears as she read.

“Off. That's my spot.” Ace had the cheek to growl at him. “Get your butt to the kitchen and have Kevin make you some treats.” Ace’s ears picked up at the word ‘treats’. He lifted his head haughtily and trotted off.

Bruce made a pillow for himself on Diana’s lap, where he lay facing the fire. Her legs were soft. He still puzzled about it—how these same legs that could smash through boulders like tissue paper seemed so delicate whenever he touched them. Comfortable. Cozy, in a way that had nothing to do with being home in front of the fireplace. He could get used to this.

He felt the weight of the mythology book upon his hair. “Princess…?”

“Tsk, your head is in the way. You're much bigger than Ace, you know,” she complained. Well, tough luck, he was too comfortable to move away right then. Despite being used as a book rest and all.

Speaking of, “You're as old as those books. Are those stories even real?”

She replied without taking her eyes off the pages, “Well, Thor is not quite the way he's described here, but it's close enough. I still run into him in New York every now and then.”

“That's interesting.” The fire cackled on the hearth.

After a while, she briefly put her book away so she could ask him seriously, “Bruce, I’m sorry to drop this on you like this. The Lantern Corps just issued another summons to Scadrial. The war there… we thought it was over, but it's not.” She paused, unsure how to break it to him. “The Duke of Deception is behind it. You understand, why I need to be there.”

He didn't like that. Not at all. “I see. When?”

“Next week? Will you let me go?”

“How can I stop you? I hate the thought of you leaving for that planet again. I don't want you to go. At least stay until Christmas.”

She nodded. “The summons is not urgent. I can delay that much at least.” She went back to reading. Neither of them brought up Black Flag. Work stayed at work as much as possible. The pirate group was done, and either the League juniors or regular law enforcement could take care of any loose ends. There was nothing further that they needed to discuss with each other, or with anybody else for that matter.

She absently stroked his hair while she continued to flip pages. As he gazed into the blaze, he said, “Christmas is just around the corner. Truth be told I wasn't expecting to see Christmas this  year. It seems a little silly if you think about it. We got married until death do us part, all the while expecting the death part to happen within months. Suddenly it never will. For the first time in a very long time, I find myself without a plan.”

“You'll figure it out. You always do.”

He sat up, taking a deep breath as he did so. Then, he said through clenched teeth, “I’m a man out of time, princess.”

Anxiously, she frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

He was fulfilled. He had good health and a loving wife—the best there was. He was happy. After so many years chasing shadows in the dark, being happy simply felt …wrong. A man like him did not deserve to be in the light. “I shouldn't be here.”

She closed her book and threw it like a frisbee onto the sofa across the room where it would be out of her way. He looked at her in time to see her blue eyes narrow at him. His gut told him he had said something exactly wrong, and he was treading thin ice.

In stark contrast to the room’s mild heat, her tone was frigid, “I'm three thousand years old. I can't age and die. Does that make me any less of a being than you?” Blue eyes flashed in righteous fury, “Do you think you’re too good for me that you can’t bear to be burdened with my agelessness? That you can’t accept me for who I am?”

“What?! That's not what I meant at all—”

“So what if you've been born an ordinary man? Was it J’onn’s fault he's a Martian? Or Kal’s that he's Kryptonian?”

“I don't want to talk about Clark right now—”

She levitated, her hands balling into fists as her body instinctively adopted a battle stance. “Don't you dare look down on my immortality!”

He cursed internally, by all the gods and goddesses he didn't believe in. Many years onward he would still find it ironic that he was married to one.

She rushed at him and he dove beside the couch. Not fast enough, she was at his side before he could blink. She swung her arm down at him, like a volleyball spike. She missed, both his head and an authentic Ming vase, just barely.

He rolled to the center of the room, away from all breakable—expensive—furniture, and he instantly stood up. As she attacked him for the third time, he sidestepped and lashed his leg at her shinbone to trip her, while simultaneously his hands went for her forearms. He quickly twisted, using his weight to topple her off-balance, and they both fell with him above.

He pinned her to the rug, his grip tight upon her wrists on the sides of her head. “What the hell was that about, princess?!” She merely glared at him in response. He glared right back.

She wasn't truly angry, he realized—he would not have been able to flip her at all if she had been going all out. He was an exceptional fighter but so was she. He slightly one-upped her on tactics, but it was physically impossible for him to top her strength or endurance. She would simply keep on coming at him no matter how many times he tripped her up. In a real, prolonged battle he would always lose to his wife. The only way he could ever pin her down like this was because she let him.

Her forehead was slightly creased, but her countenance was otherwise serene. Obsidian hair hung disheveled around her face as she lay flat on her back. Pert nose. Flawless pearlescent cheekbones. Cherry pink lips. She never wore makeup. His gaze turned to her perfect eyes. A blue, unreachable infinity. He could fall into those azure depths for forever, irrevocably drown, and never regret a moment.

She nervously licked her lips. “You're thinking that we are going to have sex right now on this rug, aren't you?”

He blinked, startled out of his reverie. “Actually, I was just— Well—" Abruptly he broke into a wide, mischievous grin, like a cat who got into the cream, ultra-deluxe special, “Wife, that's a great idea. We haven't made nookie in this room yet.”

“Bruce! What if we're seen—”

As if he cared. He stopped all her further protests with his mouth.


End file.
